


The Maker's Mix

by alacarton



Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-02-06
Updated: 2017-10-31
Packaged: 2018-09-22 10:55:59
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 9
Words: 8,644
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9604922
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/alacarton/pseuds/alacarton
Summary: da:i drabblesmostly Cullen-centric, some set within the da:i universe/timeline, others a little further back or forward.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> All of these drabbles can be found on my tumblr: cullywullycurlywurly.tumblr.com

The baby was just shy of eighth months the first night she was parted from her mother. 

Important business in Orlais. He didn’t like it, and he hadn’t agreed with it. The Inquisitor was a target now, and a valuable one at that. Orlais was not the most trustworthy of ventures either. 

But still, Elicia had gone. A duty call, she had said. Just because the Inquistion was not needed so desperately did not mean she was not needed at all. His fears had become realised when they had lost contact with the party, and local scouts reported heavy fighting along their chosen path. Fierce storms had seized the hold, and his units had taken refuge for the night, unable to press ahead. He had paced holes in the flooring of his office waiting for any news, frantic and growing increasingly inpatient by the second, praying for even the smallest slither of information, yet none such had yet come. 

And thus, he was in sole custody of the tiny bundle he and the Inquisitor shared. A baby girl; Imogen, they had named her, with tufts of blonde curls, and a gummy smile rumoured to command with ease the very Commander of the Inquisition himself.

Elicia had left enough milk to feed her (and half of Skyhold, Cullen reckoned on inspection) but still, she wailed and refused any more. She was clean (a cautious sniff to the napkin had confirmed that), warm (maybe  _too_  warm…or cold?!) and yet, he sensed that his growing anxiety was the culprit in this mess, that his own fear was terrifying her.

He had tried everything to calm her,  Maker, to calm  _himself_ , but it was all to no avail.  He paced the floor of their private quarters, bouncing the tearful infant over and over, shushing her as he did. So when his shaky voice managed to find the words to the Chant of Light, and she began to quiet from a scream to a whimler, it was a miracle. A sad sort of smile crept across his face as she finally fell silent, instead choosing to simply stare at him.

“I’m sorry, my little one. I’m not doing very well, am I? Most certainly not up to your mother’s standards. Maker knows what you are thinking right now.” 

She continued to stare up at him from his chest, with a quiet  _hic_ , the same eyes he recognised as his own, locked to him. 

“Actually, I know what you are thinking. What an awful excuse for a father, and for a husband. And you aren’t far wrong. I am not worthy, not deserving of any of this, and you and your mother deserving of something better. I pray you forgive me, little one, for all the instances I fall short of perfection in your eyes. I do not mean for it to be this way.”

He drew her to him, soft head tucking into the crook of his neck, and his cradling arms wrapped her in warmth, and in the sudden fierceness of paternal love.

“But, Andraste preserve me, I love you more than you will ever know. My child, the light of my life, you…have brought love into such dark places of my heart, with such ferocious power I did not know was possible. You and your mother, little love, you have given this sinful wanderer such purpose. I doubt you shall ever know just what you mean to me. And I shall never fail you, I will change it all for you and I will give my life before the Maker a thousand times before I see you come to harm.”

It had become a feverent, hushed muttering, and he pressed a shaking kiss to the side of her head, the wide, innocent eyes of his daughter seizing him once again as he whispered to her, leaning his nose down to rest against her own tiny one.

“This I vow to you, precious one.”

She nestled her head against him, her small body curling against his broad chest, a fist twisting with his linen shirt, and he felt his heart leap, a proud, moving warmth rising in him as her lips twisted with a peaceful sigh; “ _Da._

Cullen Stanton Rutherford did not often cry. He had long believed that it was for the weak; a fault, a failing. But that night, in the midst of the wild weather, and worrisome wait, he allowed himself a single exception - after all, there was no possible weakness that could have moved him so greatly.


	2. Chapter 2

“No.”  
  
“But Cullen, see here-“  
  
“Did I _stutter?_ ”  
  
“Anyone would think you didn’t want to share them.”

  
“Not with the nobility of Orlais, I do not.”  
  
“I think you are being rash. This is an excellent reason for a peaceful, joyful gathering, as well as winning ourselves some influence with the nobility. Recently, things have been tricky to say the least. An evening reception could be the turning point for this.”  
  
“ _They are not bargaining chips.”_

“But they attract much attention-”

“So?”  
  
“The children of the Herald of Andraste and the Commander of the Inquisition. Surely you understand the interest that garners; the people are curious.”

“They can stay curious, and preferably several miles away from Skyhold.”  
  
Josephine let out an indignant huff, pointing her quill at him from across the war table. “You are being insufferable, and pig-headedly stubborn about this.”  
  
“Good.”

“Cullen, it will be a _fine_ evening!”  
  
“They are children! One of them _barely_ an infant, three months old!” Cullen’s lip curled as he snarled his response. “They will have no idea what is happening, other than being peered at and patted and prodded, on display for _your_ politicking. I won’t agree to it.” He folded his arms firmly, glowering across the room at her, fully intending that the conversation be over.  
  
“That’s a pity, because the Inquisitor already has.”  
  
“ _What?!_ ”

* * *

 

“I’d like to voice, once again, that I am _entirely_  against this _entire_ idea. Maker knows why you ever agreed to it.” Cullen’s scowl was fixed as the procession of caravans and trailers made their way into the courtyard of Skyhold, mingling with the welcoming party, the sounds of laughter and conversation rising in the air. Their daughter sat in his arms, young eyes watching the arriving banners and colours with fascination from the safety of the parapets.

“Is that why we have more guard on duty than the entirety of Val Royeaux?”

 The displeasure on his face was evident. “Inviting half of Orlais in to our home, even just for the evening, is _asking_ for trouble. Andraste preserve me, I will have lost my patience by the time the end of this debacle comes around.”

Elicia rolled her eyes, moving to stand at his side, gently leaning into him. The infant tucked in the crook of her arm squeaked at the movement, but continued to slumber on. “Cullen, love. You are overthinking this.”

She felt the soft scratch of stubble as he kissed the side of her head, free arm linking around her waist, pulling her in close, chest heaving with a sigh. “It makes me nervous.” The stark confession came as his previous stoicism slipped. “It is too easy, too open and exposed. It is bad enough having to agree to place you on a pedestal for all to see, to leave you so exposed, that I cannot control. But for _them_ too…I know I cannot hide them here forever, but…To wish for some normality for them, to be safe in this uneasy world…”  
  
“I cannot think of any way they will ever be safer. Skyhold is their home.” She let the silence hang for a moment before continuing. “We need to appease these families and win some favour for ourselves. I know you understand it well enough, and I know that underneath you distain for our ambassador’s posturing, you recognise the reality we face. This is difficult, but our duty to the Inquisition must also be a consideration. It is one evening.”

  
The sigh that began his reply told her he understand _fine_ well. “They _will_ be safe, because I have stationed guards at every possible problematic area within Skyhold, and will have all on high alert for _any_ issues. I will not allow anything other than a trouble-free evening.”

“They will be safe,” Elicia countered, turning her gaze upwards to meet his, “because their father will be less than a breath away at all times. No would-be trouble maker would dare to do anything with that particular threat hanging over them.”

  
She allowed herself a coy grin as she felt his chest rise and fill with pride, the low chuckle that fell from his lips more relaxed. “At least we are in agreement about _something._ ” 

Any further response he had was interrupted by an excited cry from the toddler in his arms.  
  
“Daddy, look! _Flags_!”

 

* * *

 

As it happened, the reception was undisturbed and typically _boring._ The nobles fawned over the new arrival ( _yes,_ he repeatedly answered _, he had taken his eyes and hair from his father_ ), whispered hushed remarks about the blessed second infant of the Herald ( _Connor, he did have a name!_ )  and marvelled at how alike their young girl was to her mother ( _Maker’s breath_ , _was that really a surprise?_ ). Frankly, the events of the day did little to change his opinion on the uselessness of pomp and circumstance of nobility, and only further served to reinforce his belief that a few good soldiers was better than any damn _party_. He was polite, however, Josephine’s warning eyes often finding him, and he spent the early evening fielding questions with ease, and sheltering a shy Imogen in his arms from the squealing noble women attempting to pinch her cheeks.

But when she began to whine, and rub at her eyes, and the baby grew restless, even with a full stomach, Cullen merrily volunteered to commandeer the bed time effort. Elicia had thanked him as she had passed the boy, the look they shared telling him there would be an admittance later on that perhaps he _had_ been right about inviting so many people at once. But it was gone in a flash, and she was drawn into _another_ conversation with _another_ masked noble. Cullen slipped from the Great Hall with ease, leaving instructions with the guard should his presence be required, before disappearing into the quiet of Skyhold and the safety of their personal quarters, the warmth of the embers from the fire glowing in the dark of the evening. 

As the door closed, he felt the invisible burden slip from him. _Complete._ He could relax, now that privacy was once more theirs, that the peering eyes and sickly-sweet voices had disappeared. Elicia was capable, _more_ than capable, of handling an evening reception full of finery and indulgence. She was, after all, noble blooded, born into that world, far more attune with it and less noticeably irritated; Cullen, despite valiant attempt, had yet to ever find the patience, and often fought to control the sarcasm that awaited on his tongue. For all that the Inquisition was, and had, the Ferelden farm boy at his core still yearned for the most peaceful life he could muster.  
  
He kicked off the leather boots that so pained his feet, setting the baby down amongst the covers on the bed before shedding the heavy dress jacket and waistcoat, and loosing the collar of his shirt. He set about changing Imogen from the _ridiculously_ ruffled dress she had been subjected to, cladding her in fresh nightclothes and freeing her ever-growing hair from the confines of the plait Elicia had so carefully put in place.

“Come now, how about some peace from all that madness, hm? You have done a fine job as our newest ambassador. You look a little more like yourself now though, little one, and I fear I shall always prefer you to do so.” The soft giggle from her as he tickled under her chin made his heart _swell,_ and he planted several kisses on her cheeks, peals of light laughter ringing out in response. Bundling both her and her brother back into his arms, he settled amongst the pillows on the bed, Imogen curling under one arm, the baby, with his golden tufts and rosy fat cheeks, nuzzling into his chest, breathing settling as calm descended. Cullen’s eyes closed almost automatically, the peaceful bliss addictive, and the content feeling of having both close, safe and quiet.

“So little, so new here, but so loved. Endless possibility, wrapped with hopes and dreams. Must protect, too innocent, too much evil in this world for them. How such little people have such hold over a heart.”  
  
The sudden voice made him jump, eyes snapping open; even now, the Hedge mage could catch him by surprise. “Cole.” It was a rather obvious statement, and the boy, perched on the chair opposite, tilted his head. 

“I was not aware you were sleeping. Did I frighten you?”  
  
“I wasn’t, I…never mind.” He sighed, raising an eyebrow. “What do you want?”  
  
“The Inquisitor asked me to check you had escaped in safety. She is trapped within conversation, mask after mask, words, words, words. It is so busy, but nobody notices Cole. I slipped up here very easily for her. She was worried it was too much.”  
  
“Did she now?” He relaxed, returning to gently patting his son’s back, lulling him into a peaceful slumber with the quietest of sniffles. “Well, you can tell her that all is well, and she is free to continue with her evening. Although, I doubt I will be rejoining her, so please pass on my apologies.”  
  
“Warm arms, broad chest, hands that guide, eyes that adore. Safe from all here, with my father, my favourite place in his embrace.”  
  
Cullen’s eyes snapped up once more, following Cole’s gaze to his sleeping daughter, a dainty hand curled amongst his shirt, dark curls splayed as she found sleep, peace on her face, cheek resting at the arch of his shoulder. The creeping familiarity of fierce love wove into his chest as he watched her sleep, Cole’s words ringing in his ear, and a soft chuckle escaped him as he closed his eyes, knowing the spirit would be gone, leaving them in blissful peace once more.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> dad!Cullen is my favourite headcanon. He'd just be so suited to it. Let him be happy, Maker's breath, the boy deserves it.
> 
> (and still despise the nobles)


	3. Chapter 3

 

 

“I tell you, we will have the finest furniture in all of Ferelden.”

He had to admit he had zoned out of much of the chatter as they drank. Pointless small talk about drapery, and carpets and-

“Particularly the desks.”

“Oh, the desks are good, so I hear.”  
  
“ _Sturdy_ is what I have heard.”  
  
“Mh. Well, Cullen has the largest out of us all… _desk_ that is. Perhaps we should ask for his consideration?”

He glanced up, suddenly aware of a sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach. “It’s, er…a desk? A fine desk?”

“But Commander, do tell.” Dorian’s smirk grew to a positively mammoth grin, curling at the edges as he leant forward. “Tell us your thoughts on _just_ how sturdy a desk should be.”  
  
And he froze. _Maker._

_How could they possibly know…_

He couldn’t help the colour that had started to rush to his cheeks, deliberately refusing to meet the eyes he knew were locked on him, awaiting his response. A quick, sideways glance to Dorian once more confirmed his worst fears - the smug bastard _knew_.

_Andraste, preserve me._

“You’ve gone a very adorable shade of magenta, Commander. Something you’d like to impart upon us?”

“N-No!” He managed to splutter, forcing himself to look at the assembled parties around him. “I have n-no idea what you are… _to suggest_ …nonsense!”

  
“Really?” Bull’s deep voice cut in. “I heard some most interesting news floating around camp this week.”

“Did you really? Why, I wonder if it was the same news that managed to reach my ears too?”

There was a chorus of sniggering, and Cullen began to twitch, starting to rise to his feet.  
  
“I should really get back to-“  
  
Bull’s hand on his back caught his armour, pushing him back down in his seat. “No, no, Commander. Five more minutes. _Indulge us_.”

“Would someone like to tell me what I am missing here?” Cassandra was staring over her flagon, an eyebrow raised, and Dorian’s shit-eating grin grew wider.

“Yeah, Curly. It’s rude to leave the lady out of our _discussion_.” _Of course Varrik would be supporting this._

“I do not think it is _gossip_ that the lady Seeker would be even remotely interested in!”

“Gossip? Are you saying there is no truth to it, Commander?” _Smug bastard._

_“_ Would someone care to explain to what exactly is going on?” Cassandra’s patience was wearing thin.

_“_ My lady Seeker, we were simply passing through the barracks earlier this week when we happened upon some interesting information. A scout by the name of Jim-“

_“Jim?!”_ That _damned_ scout. He would _swing_ him from the tower when he saw him next.

“Happened to be passing along the ramparts when he saw a most _flabbergasting_ proposition…Imagine, the dear Commander and the _Herald of Andraste_ …testing out the very limits of our fine desks…”

_“_ Perhaps that is why…“ _Holy preserve him, not Josephine too._ “There was a most interesting comment from our dear Inquisitor, enquiring as to why Commander Rutherford had a very large hole in the roof of his personal quarters that had not been repaired.”

There was silence, and Cullen wholeheartedly agreed that if a rift were to open above him, and a demon to seize him, he would have gone gladly.

“Curly? Anything to add to that, or have we got the story covered? I do like to be thorough. Remember, the Maker is watching and knows your heart, and all that jazz, so no lying.”

He saw the dawn in Cassandra’s eyes as they shifted to him, and he felt the sweat on his palms under her scrutiny. Maker, he hadn’t been _this_ embarrassed since he was a mere boy, and damned Mia had told his parents about…

“ _You and the Inquisitor?”_

It was a fruitless endeavour to continue to pretend now, and he gave in with a heaving sigh, mumbling into his flagon as he drained it.

_“Sweet Maker,_ I need more wine.”

The table erupted into a roar of laughter and shouts, and he laid his head against the table, burying it beneath an armoured arm, Dorian’s slap to the back stinging even through the armour.

It was going to be a long, _long_ night.

 


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (I love, love, looove Cullen's option in Alliances: From the Heart. Enjoy my dribbling on my love for our expected secret Cupid xD)

“You _smuggled_ them out of the city and allowed them to elope?!”

Josephine, it turned out, could be fearsome when she tried. The target of her rage shrugged once more, feigning innocence, blinking at her with a blank expression. “I havent the faintest idea what you are referring to.”

“Don’t lie to me, Cullen!” She rounded on him, an accusing finger pointing. “I saw that report to the Inquisitor! Two extra soldiers after leaving the city?! Who would believe that!”

“Ah, that. Turns out we were wrong.” He plucked a steel figurine from the table turned in his fingers idly, and a smirk curled at the corner of his lips. “When recounted much later, we were once again on our expected roster. I’d blame the Lieutenant, if you ask me. The man can’t count for all the gold in Ferelden…” 

“This is a nonsense! Inquisitor, the chance to gain important approval from both sides has been lost because our _Commander_ involved himself and his troops where they were not needed!”

“Oh, you mean the young Lady who disappeared before her wedding?” Josephine rounded on him once more, but he cut off the inevitable rant. “ I heard she was sighted in the Free Marches, together with her lover. Moving into a little farmhouse in one of the villages, apparently very happy. Love’s young dream. I suppose things work themselves out in the end, don’t they?” 

Josephine gave a disgusted snort, turning on her heel and storming from the war room, patience spent. Elicia watched her go, before sighing, joining Cullen at the table, gently nudging his side. 

“You shouldn’t antagonise her. You know how she takes these things…” His chuckling did not cease, and she rolled her eyes. “The Free Marches, hm?”

“Yes.” Cullen glanced to her, before his eyes returned to watching the figurine in his hand. “Far enough away from the hysteria that will come when the wedding is one very important guest short. Close enough for us to keep a silent eye on them.”

Elicia snorted a laugh, her best facade falling to the inevitably infectious smugness of her companion. “You won’t be attending the wedding then, Commander?”

“Andraste preserve me, I cannot think of a worse way to spend precious free time. And an arranged marriage no less? What an awful predicament to place a young woman in. It is practically prehistoric. Even I can have a heart for nobility under those circumstances. The girl didn’t choose to be born into that. I would love to see the look on their _noble_ faces when they realise they have lost the game…”

“So really, this was not having a heart for nobility at all. It was striking a blow against _everything_ nobility stands for.”

He finally stopped spinning the piece, glancing to her, and the smirk that grew all but screamed of his confession. “Now, wouldn’t that be something?”

“It would be if it were entirely true, yes..” She moved to slide in front of him, leaning against the table as she did, a hand splaying across the cloth on his chest. “But I believe that is simply a convenient excuse, and you had much different reasons for your actions…”

He simply raised an eyebrow, face unchanged, but his hands found her hips, discarding the piece as they curled around to the small of her back, leaning down to her, lips tantalisingly close as he spoke, voice deep, smooth.

“A different reason, Inquisitor?”

“Indeed.” Her smirk remained, a teasing lilt in her voice. “My theory? I think you are much gentler than your fearless facade would say, Commander. Even perhaps partial to believing in a little love story from time to time. That you wanted to see this young couple’s romance blossom, away from the nonsense of politicking…”

The low chuckle that rumbled from his chest seemed to run through her, and she cupped his face in her hands, gently running her fingers across the rough stubble littering his cheeks as he spoke.

“For that poor boy to have to watch the woman he loves marry another man while he is powerless to stop it, and for she to be miserable…” His face softened, voice quietening, eyes singing with emotion. “Love is the Maker’s gift to us all, to love as Andraste loved him. Who are we to interfere with that?”

Elicia met his eyes once more, a smirk growing as a pink flush rose to his cheeks, thumbs tracing the crinkle under his eye. “To us all? Does that also include brooding ex-Templars who declare themselves unworthy of loving on a regular basis?” The pink on his cheeks quickly darkened, and she heard a muttered ’ _Maker’s breath_ , giggling as she tapped his cheek, continuing. “Because I believe so. And I am of the opinion that he too knows that, however far into his gentle soul it is hidden. That he knows that he is a good man, with a good heart, and that he is so _loved_.”

Cullen did not reply, but a deep sigh slipped for him, and a smile he could not hide spread across his face. He leant forward, pulling her hips to meet his and catching her lips for a deep, passionate kiss, one she was more than happy to enjoy, a hand sliding to twist between his blonde curls. They only broke apart, slowly, when the realisation of where they were pulled them from their embrace as the guard passed down the hall. They both adjusted their clothing, Cullen clearing his throat as they did.

“I shall ask you not to be repeating that little theory of yours, Inquisitor.” He glanced to the now empty doorway, before kissing her on the cheek and offering her a coy grin instead. “People shall start to think I _have_ a heart.”

  



	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry, not sorry for the angstfest that's about to come, with a little fluff on top. slightly nsfw, if only in euphemism.

_Three weeks._

 

Three weeks with no information, only the word of a scout that the party had withdrawn after fierce fighting near the Fallow Mires with hoards of undead.

 

Three weeks of wonder, of worry. Of headaches, of pains, of _craving_ that which he detested if it would help even a fraction. The pain was made almost crippling by the lack of sleep and near constant anxiety. _Was she safe?_ And those thoughts fed into his ever-present nightmares. No longer was he only tortured by his past; the future had come too, to twist the blade. _A future without her._

 

He had sworn never to give less to the Inquisition than the Chantry, but he had never expected to find himself giving _more_. For _her_ , he gave everything, and he was losing his damn mind over it.

 

He kept face in front of all but Cassandra - he had never been able to fool that woman. She had cornered him several times, and despite knowing the good intentions her questions were asked with, it still irked him. So he lied, and continued to. _Fine. Just tired. A lot of work._ She did not believe him, the skeptical raise of the eyebrow, and cool, tight lips said so. But to her credit, she let him be, and left him as best she could to cloak himself with his demons.

 

He seemed to spend hours in the chapel when his minder wandered, work pointless he was so muddled, and instead could be found muttering prayers on one knee, oblivious to his surroundings. _And nothing that he has wrought shall be lost…_ _Lost. Is that what she is? While I sit idly by, waiting? Have I failed her?_

 

The twenty-seventh night ( _the board on the wall told him so),_ he had spent pacing into the wee hours, as had become the norm for him. The floorboards beneath him groaned in protest as he walked, the weight of his mind no doubt adding to their burden. He was contemplating another re-order of his bookshelf ( _anything to avoid sleep)_ when the sound of armour caught his ear. Peering from the battalements high above, he watched them arrive through the gates, and found the burst of relief at the sight of her _insatiable._ Near running from his tower and through the darkness of Skyhold, he slipped through the corridors and into her private quarters. He would stay out of sight, silent in the corner of her room. She knew he would be waiting.

 

They knew this ritual; it was well practiced. He would find her, hold her, remind her that she was alive and home and _his._ There was no shame in the heaving sobs either of them shared, the mirrored fear and relief mingling as one. He would carry her when tired legs finally gave way in his embrace, seating her in the chair before him. He would peel blood-soaked cloth from her, and clean and dress each wound, however small, often times muttering a curse or a line of prayer as he did. His face wore focus, masking pain, he _hurt_ to see her like this. He would tell her that she could not leave his side again, that he would not allow her to place herself in such danger once more, but they both knew it was fantasy; as if she would somehow be allowed that luxury, and he that peace of mind.

 

His liturgy would end with her naked before him, and with ease he would bring her to the bed, his gentle hands would cover her body, lips following, to smother her in love. She would take her time, undressing him with lithe hands and sweet words as they wound together beneath the satin sheets. He would lose himself in her, and she in him, the sound, smell, touch, _taste_ of him blissfully surrounding her, and her name was scripture to him in the dark of the night.

 

Sleep would eventually find them, glowing, breathless, entwined together once more: her tucked against his broad chest, him curled around her, even in sleep clinging to her small form. It was one of few nights he slept soundly, the whispers of his nightmares never coming, the panicked pleading silenced. 

 

It was a habit they had both fallen so easily into, perhaps in the same way they had fallen so easily in love. She missed the warmth of him next to her in the cold field tents, the safety that his arms brought her, and she knew without her, his nights were a thing of terror, and he was alone once again, pleading with his Maker for peace enough for them both. The guilt of leaving never became easier, but the sweet joy in awakening next to him was her price.

 

And so it was that morning. The early light filtered through the curtains, dancing along the floor, bathing the bed in warmth. He slept on next to her; at peace, with hair mussed, stray across his face, morning stubble darker across his jaw, and a strong arm wrapped around her waist. She ran smooth fingers across his face, trailing into the wild tangle of his blonde curls, and he murmured something appreciative. Sleep-filled eyes half lifted, and the smile that greeted her lit flickers of love in her breast. He reached for her, his lips meeting hers for a soft, loving kiss, before he sank back into the pillows, breath evening out as he once again drifted back to the Fade. So different to the wild, relentless chaos of the night before; the calm, quiet dawn of a new day.

 

There was a quiet knock at the door to her quarters; _the guard knew better than to interrupt, it must be important._ She slipped from the bed to whisper a quiet _‘just a_ moment’ through the door, dressing silently in her leathers and pulling her hair into a plait as she opened the door.  
  
“We have a report in from a unit in Val Royeaux, with information. They need more men. I have tried to find Cullen but he-… _ah._ ” A finger was pressed to her lips, being shushes near instantly, and Cassandra’s wide eyes fell over her shoulder to the slumbering form of her missing Commander, snoring softly underneath the white satin.

 

“I am sure” her silencer mouthed, a smile curling at the edge of her lips, “I can look over it if not only for now.”

 

“Yes. I am sure you can.” Cassandra’s eyes looked to her, before a final glance back at the sleeping man, managing a light chuckle as she turned. “Come, let us allow him some peace. Maker knows, he is deserving of it.”

 


	6. Chapter 6

_In the long hours of the night,_  
_When hope has abandoned me,_  
_I will see the stars and know_  
_Your Light remains._  
  
Parting was sorrow.  
Despair.  
He had begged to hold her once more, to cling to even the very scent of her.  
He found he could not speak, for fear of his heart being ripped from him.  
As the sun began to set behind distant cloud, so too did his fruitless belief that this was his nightmare, and he would soon awaken.  
For the abyss of the sky called, it's dark creator awaits, and to it, he must send her.  
  
_Maker, though the darkness comes upon me,_  
_I shall embrace the Light._  
_I shall weather the storm._  
_I shall endure._  
_What you have created, no one can tear asunder._  
  
His sanctuary became his torment,  
So little did he wish the company of others.  
In the fading light, alone, he could feel his mind slipping from him,  
Like salt between his fingers.  
Crisp sheets, on which he could still feel her weight, seemed to smother him.  
Flickering flame contained her shadow.  
He could not be here.  
And so he fled,  
Took the ladder two steps at a time,  
And ran as a man pursued by demons that would not fall silent.  
  
_I cannot see the path._  
_Perhaps there is only abyss._  
_Trembling, I step forward,_  
_In darkness enveloped._  
  
And before the figure, he had fallen to his knees, trembling hands clasped.  
Soft candlelight around him, the scent of floral posies in the air.  
This was safety.  
Andraste, his refuge.  
Familiar words slipped from his lips, uttering each word with such forceful belief.  
He needed to believe, lest he give way to the doubt that threatened in his mind.  
There could be no doubt.  
His Faith could not leave him now.  
  
_Though all before me is shadow,_  
_Yet shall the Maker be my guide._  
_I shall not be left to wander the drifting roads of the Beyond._  
_For there is no darkness in the Maker’s Light_  
_And nothing that He has wrought shall be lost._  
  
The darkness of night had flooded the temple.  
Leilana's voice was foreign, so used to the silence he had become.  
The words barely registering, but her face speaking for them.  
His mind fell still.  
And he moved, not with demons clawing now but with hope before him.  
Endless hope, possibility, life.  
And there she was.  
Set out amongst the crowd,  
With roaring applause and hushed prayers at her feet.  
With weary tiredness below her eyes,  
Blood speckled armour,  
And a face that had seen the inside of Hell itself.  
  
Yet he believed she was the most beautiful sight he had ever been given.

  
_I am not alone. Even_  
_As I stumble on the path_  
_With my eyes closed, yet I see_  
_The Light is here._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sometimes, I really love the Chant of Light.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (A request on Tumblr for the prompts "So I found a waterfall" and "Why are you covered in mud?")

 

_“_ Would one of you care to explain yourselves? Why exactly you are covered head to toe in mud?”

The two children before him seemed to shuffle in place, exchanging guilty looks from behind soaked hair. 

“So, I found this waterfall-“

“ _I_ found the waterfall!”

“Shut up Connor! _I_ found the map, so it’s _my_ waterfall!”

“But you wouldn’t have got there had I not found the path up the rockface!”

Their bickering echoed amongst the walls of his office, and Cullen did his best to contain the urge to commit both to peeling duties in the kitchen on the spot.

“Well, Grayson found a chest, so there was treasure after all.”

He twitched, eyes snapping back to the children before him, attention returning in seconds.  “A chest?”

“A great big chest, the wood was all splintered, it must’ve been really old. He spotted it in the corner!”

“With an orb in it!”

“Yeah! It wasn’t very heavy, it must’ve been very old too! Grayson could make it do things, he picked it up and there was this light and-“

“ _What_?!” Mere childish squabbles seemed so petty with just a few simple words. Cullen’s hands met the desk with an audible _thud_ , both children jumping as he stared at them, panic rising within him. “You let your brother…he is not even _four_! Where is he?!”

A look passed between the siblings, before Conor offered his father as innocent a look as he could muster. “Outside on the walkway?”

“And the orb?!”

His daughter squirmed, shuffling a foot before replying. “Eh, well…he took it…and kept it…”

Her words had an instant effect, and Cullen was throwing his office door open in the blink of an eye, storming down the battlements towards the curly haired boy at the end, his prize glittering in the sunshine. A nauseating fear began to curl in his chest, the very worst coming to haunt him as he walked, and it took every ounce of beaten-in discipline to avoid throwing himself across the ramparts.

“ _Put it down, Grayson!_ ”

His voice sounded so distant, so alien, and the young boy paid his fear no heed, gleefully thrusting the sphere into the air as he turned to him, still so very, _very_ far away. 

“But look what I can do, Daddy! Look!” The entire orb crackled with sudden energy, and a wicked, foul light spread from it. It grew larger and more fierce with each passing moment, and the boy’s face changed from one of delight to one of growing panic as it began to shake, his hand seized to the golden article. The blue skies clouded in moments, a sinister grey filling it instead, and the fear he had previously kept at bay burst free, panic wild and primitive.

Cullen began to run, begging his feet to move faster across the ancient stonework, scrabbling to move as it began to fall to pieces, coming apart with a deep rumble.

“Daddy, help me!”

_Maker take him, this could not happen._

Every Harrowing he had attended, every abomination he had ever crossed a blade with, every _damned_ demon and blight-tainted horror flooded his mind. Desperation filled him; he wasn’t _fast_ enough, he wasn’t _strong_ enough. He had no lyrium, unable to deny this, no sweet poison to force down to stop this. 

_No, Maker above. Not his son. No, no, no._

The unmistakable, unholy screech of the evils he knew all too well filled the sordid air, the lead-like taste of _magic_ around him twisting over his tongue as the shadow of the little boy disappeared in a burst of green light, ramparts falling around him.  
  
_He was too late. He had failed once more, failed at protecting those he was supposed to, failed his most basic duty, and-_

_“Cullen!”_

The scene seemed to melt away, the darkest of black filling his vision before he met deep eyes of ochre with a pained cry, reaching hand twisting into soft bedsheets, and his wife’s gentle touch cupped a cheek, hushing him as she did. The warm glow from the embers of the fireplace lit their bedchambers, and outside the great glass doors, a peaceful night across Skyhold.

_A nightmare…_

“It is alright, it was a dream…”

Beads of sweat gathered at the nape of his neck, and across his brow, and his hand trembled as it wiped at them before covering his eyes, willing himself to breathe slowly, deeply. It had been too real, too close to possibly be a figment of a tortured imagination. 

He muttered an apology and pulled away from her, slipping from the covers despite her concerned gaze. Pulling his gown from the chair and throwing it on, bare feet met cold stone as he took the stairs two at a time, the candlelit hallways deserted. 

_He had to know, had to be sure, to quiet the panic, the thundering fear within._

The grand oak door creaked as he pushed it open, and he flinched at the echo of the sound in the silence of the great fortress in these wee hours. Before him, three filled beds and a chorus of peaceful snores from beneath plump covers and crisp sheets, and his knees nearly buckled with sheer _relief_. He tiptoed across the darkened room and knelt at the bedside of the youngest, a foot poking from beneath the blankets. _Perfectly safe_ , his inner voice reminded him once more, _not a golden hair out of place_. The boy stirred, blinking sleep-filled eyes at his father before offering him a dazed smile, reaching for him with both hands and a simple whisper of ‘ _daddy’_.

And Cullen gathered him in his arms without a moment’s hesitation, cradling him, breathing in the sweet scent of warm milk and fresh bedclothes, and the urge to sob into the golden curls that crowned his head was overwhelming. _Maker, it had been too real for his weary mind._ He tucked his gown over Grayson, to shield him from the chill as he slipped back through the cold hallway, feeling the small, content sigh against bare chest as they climbed the stairs, an amused chuckle drifting from his wife as they joined her in bed, the littlest immediately curling contently amongst the sheets.

“And to think we spent so long convincing him to sleep away from our quarters as an infant…” An apologetic smile was his response, not that it needed one; she need not ask what had terrified him so, or just why their youngest child was now occupying the very centre of their bed. It had been years now of her comforting his broken sleep, and he supposed she, more than anyone, could read the unspoken despair and terror in his eyes when he awoke screaming in the night. 

“All is well, Cullen. Dreams are so far from reality. ”

“You are wrong, my love.” He tucked an arm around her and drew her closer, their son nestled contently between them, forehead resting against his chest as his breathing evened once more. “ _This_ dream is very much reality.”


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For the prompt: “I’m going to my bed.” “That’s the bathroom.” 
> 
> by shannaraisles on Tumblr

Sleep evaded her, and so Elicia was pottering quietly about the house in her night gown, humming to herself in the silence. Cullen had left early in the evening; she had near pushed him out of the door, insisting that it could not _possibly_ be as terrible as he was imagining. They had spent the day at the local farming market, and the local townsfolk had been warm and welcoming. When one suggested Cullen join the other men at the local tavern after market for a drink, she had answered for him - _he would love to_. The panic in his eyes at her agreement, the hiss of argument behind closed doors, had not been enough to sway her. 

 

_But what if they ask questions?_

 

_What if they know?_

 

_How will I explain?_

 

She had done her best to reassure him it would be _fine_ \- that this was their life now, and neither could live in recluse. They had moved in barely two weeks past, the debris of their shared life still yet to find a place in what was now their home. 

 

A roomy, warm cottage, in a sleepy little town in the southern hills of Ferelden. Market day and country fetes had replaced daily guard drills and war room conferences. The frozen peaks that had been her montage for so many months at Skyhold were now rolling green pastures, field and peaceful streams.

 

And she could not stop beaming. She had paced the floor of each room, peered from each window and ran a hand along every wall. It seemed a dream, so far from what the past months had been. And how strange they had looked at first, bereft of armour or the finery Josephine had procured. How foreign to be unknown, to slip amongst the crowd as simply another body. Leaving Skyhold had felt as though she was letting go all she knew to be safe and familiar.

 

But Cullen had promised a home for them and, as always, the man had more than delivered.

 

Her hand found the crest of the swell of pregnancy that still seemed to grow daily (and each morning she swore she _waddled_ a little more). The back room she had declared the nursery from the moment she had laid eyes on it, and it was now quickly filling with every knitted item under the sun. Despite her husband’s protests about her _safety_ , Elicia had hung fine white drapes from the large window and had set about painting the bare walls with colour. It had quickly become her favourite room, and from the window she near swore she could see a small head of golden curls running about the wheat fields, joyful laughter filling the air. 

 

Peace. It was a beautiful thought after all they had seen. 

 

_Peace_ , however, did not last long that eve, as it happened. There was a loud _thud_ as the front door opened, a louder _thud_ as it closed once more, before a crash filled the house as the intruder’s foot met with pile of armour that she had neglected to remove from the hallway whilst sorting with a wail of objection. 

 

“ _Cullen?”_ Her husband managed a mutter of a reply, something about _damned armour,_ with an uncharacteristic slur as she approached. “Andraste’s tits, what happened to you? Are you…” She did her best to stifle a snickeer as he gazed back at her, blinking in the candlelight with a glazed look. “Are you _drunk?_ ”

 

“ _Drunk_ is an objective term, ‘licia. Wasn’ m’ fault, William kept buying flagons, said it was ’n _introduction_ to the place…” Her hands cupped his face, fingers gently tracing the stubble littering his strong jaw, as he hiccuped.

 

“William? So you were making friends after all?” An infectious laugh slipped from her that Cullen soon caught on to, snorting at the absurdity of it all. It seemed ridiculous to her to be playing these roles - the drunken husband coming home to the overly-pregnant wife, after an evening of merry making with friends at the local tavern. So strangely, blissfully, _normally_ ridiculous. “Well, I suppose I cannot complain. I did send you out, after all.”

 

“Somethin’ like that.”An arm linked around her waist and he kissed her, a sloppy but gentle kiss, she giggling against his lips, lithe fingers twisting amongst his hair. “Maker, you _are_ beautiful…”

 

“Mh, I think it may be your bed time, Ser Rutherford.” Her nose wrinkled at the smell of alcohol on his breath, tutting in jest.

 

“Oh? I s’pose I can agree with _that_ …”

 

“To _sleep,_ Cullen.” She slipped from his arms, poking her tongue out at his disappointed pout. “This little one and I need our rest. Although I believe you may need it more… were you not supposed to helping repair the school roof tomorrow?”

 

He groaned in response, a hand rubbing at his temples. “Alright, ‘m going, I…’m going to my bed.” He managed to stagger under his own power past the doorframe, Elicia rolling her eyes as she left him to find the warmth of the bedding in the entirely opposite direction.

 

“That’s the bathroom, _love_.”


	9. They Don't Deserve Our Help

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> started a new set of prompts. save me now.
> 
> prompt list can be found on my tumblr - the 'wonder woman sentence prompts' one.
> 
> 'they don't deserve our help'

“I cannot believe you have done this!” Josephine’s anger was laced in each word as she paced in the candlelight, her companion paying little heed to her. “Taking control of the Winter Palace, marching our soldiers through the doors! We are here to help the Exalted Council bring peace, in proving the Inquisition’s worth! Not give them more ammunition with which to destroy us!”

Cullen scoffed at the outburst, arms tightly folded across his chest, a sneer lifting his lip. “They don’t  _deserve_  our help.”

Since the departure of the Inquisitor for the Darvaarad, the two had barely ceased the constant flow of heated bickering, Josephine’s persistence greeted with sullen displeasure. Even the silence was uncomfortable, the room too small, the air too stagnant. Beneath an apparently stoic and snarky exterior, Cullen tormented himself over their current predicament, unnerved and worrying. How had it all gone so very wrong? How had it ended here; a trial before nobility for their good deeds, the Qunari at their door and the Inquisitor (his love, his  _wife)_ at the mercy of an increasingly volatile Mark.

Failure was close enough to taste, and it tasted all too bitterly habitual.

“When the Inquisitor returns, we must have answers!”

“ _If_ she comes back at all.” His surly reply, even to those unfamiliar, would have betrayed the worry that festered at the bottom of his temperament. It was hardly Josephine’s fault, she herself was under the pressure of an expectant court, but her constant turmoil and their already tested friendship made it difficult to prevent himself. “Those who enter Qunari fortresses do not tend to walk back out of them so easily. It is hardly the noble’s  _soiree_ you would like to believe.”

“This is ridiculous! You are allowing personal affairs to blind you to the importance of this succeeding!” Josephine spun on a heel, advancing towards him with an enraged cry. “Do you not care what they think of us? Of the Inquisitor? Of all the Inquisition has worked to-“

Cullen’s hands met the solid wood of the table and a voice he barely recognised as his own snarled across it at the Antivan, patience finally worn through. “Of course I do not. I  _know_  the good we have done, the difference the Inquisition has brought to Thedas. I will not spend precious time pretending they are somehow more virtuous than that. We do not have the time, the  _Inquisitor_ does not have them time. The Mark will  _kill_  her, Josephine! If that is allowing _personal affairs_ to blind me, then Maker be damned, I care not!She will  _die_!And for what, hm? To be blamed for each and every single thing either side can dream up, to have a noose drawn around her neck for a role she never asked for. Is there a more thankless job than saving these idiots from themselves? Is saving the world not enough,deafeating Corypheus, bringing peace to the South, without giving her life for a cause now slandered by petty nobles and their ilk? What else must she do, what  _more_  must she give for you to be satisfied?!”

“ _Enough, Cullen_.”

It was the arrival of Leliana, with a firm glare and hardened eyes, that brought an end to the tirade, Josephine staring back at him with widened, near fearful eyes, hands clutching at the wooden board in a pathetic attempt of defence. There was a pant on his breath Cullen hadn’t realised he has worked up to, and the stares on him were too much to bear, the urge to lash out at the ancient brickwork near overwhelming. He instead stormed past the women with a curse, the heavy door slamming in his wake as he left, Leliana’s curt sigh following him.

“Are you alright, Josie?”

The young Antivan stared at the door, before nodding, drawing herself together. “Yes, I am fine…I did not intend for that to…escalate in such a manner.”

“I know.”

“He is being _completely-_ “

“Leave him be.” The younger woman looked surprised, Leliana tilting her head, brow creasing. “Did you not see it in his eyes, written on his face? He is not the Commander of the Inquisition when you speak to him about  _her._ Only a husband, powerless to protect her and sending her before certain death once more. You will not get the sense you are seeking just now.”

It took barely a moment for the shock to register, and the astounded cry to come. “ _Husband?!_ ”

“Time is not on their side,” Leliana continued without pause, “and he is a wounded creature because of it. That makes him frightened, but it also makes him dangerous. Even if the Qunari are stopped, and Ferelden or Orlais does not call for her head, the Mark may still kill her. How do we win? How does she live? It is a terrible burden to bear. Made worse, I imagine, by loving her.” Josephine’s face crumpled into an unreadable mix of emotion, Leliana’s voice softening as she drew closer to her. “He will regret speaking to you that way. You know he will apologise.”

Josephine simply nodded, her face written with contemplation and amongst it all, a crestfallen disbelief. “I…I cannot believe it has come to this. All we have achieved, all we have worked for, in ruins. How can that be, Leliana? How can we have fallen just as the Wardens did?” She drew a shuddering breath, tucking a stray strand of dark hair back in place behind her ear. “And they eloped… In the Winter Palace, no less.”

“Yes.” The words brought a rueful smile to Leliana’s face, one that did not quite reach the sadness in her eyes. “I imagine only desperation could bring Cullen to believe  _here_  was the only suitable choice. I cannot say it bodes us well.”


End file.
